


The Composition of a Fine Murder

by eggshellseas



Category: Hannibal (TV), Rope (1948)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hannibal is pretentious, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggshellseas/pseuds/eggshellseas
Summary: This moment has been nearly a decade in the making. Hannibal has been grooming Will as his accomplice for years, and it's finally time to commit the perfect murder.





	The Composition of a Fine Murder

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to the-walking-fannibal for [the accompanying art!](https://the-walking-fannibal.tumblr.com/post/166851260521/i-had-the-delightful-pleasure-to-paint-an-artwork)
> 
> Inspired by and some dialogue borrowed from Hitchcock's _Rope_.

It is, just as Hannibal had hoped, wonderfully intimate to share this with his dear Will. He’s never seen Will quite so undone. Oh, of course countless times he has had Will sweaty and grunting in bed, and Hannibal does adore his animal lust, but here, now, Will is something else entirely. In this moment of creation and destruction, Will is a god. They are _both_ gods, and he feels they are connected as never before. It’s as if they each hold the other’s heart in their hands, their synchronized heartbeats drumming a song of power made even more majestic by the absence of a pulse in the neck beneath Hannibal’s fingers.

Will is quick to step back once he realizes the deed is done, but Hannibal holds fast to Miriam Lass’s limp body. While his feelings for her had been overall neutral in life, in death he is overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude to her for bringing him closer to Will. He lays her gently on the chaise lounge. He had been showing her a new painting when, as planned, Will came up behind them, and Hannibal rights the frame from where it had been knocked askew. She hadn’t had much chance to struggle, and nothing else is out of place. Hardly any fuss to this murder business, he thinks, pleased.

There is a sudden shift in light, and Hannibal turns to see Will opening the curtains before lighting a cigarette. Hannibal can’t bear any distance from him at this crucial juncture, so he leaves Miriam and walks across the room to wrap his arms around Will’s waist, pressing his chest to Will’s narrower back.

“How did you feel during it?” Hannibal murmurs, nuzzling just above Will’s ear. Will is so very still besides the steady swell of his breath, and the slight movement of his hand back and forth as he smokes.

“I felt your excitement,” Will says finally, “and I felt powerful.”

-

This moment has been nearly a decade in the making. Of course, Hannibal hadn’t known it at the time, but this is the consummation he’s been waiting for since he first spied sad little Will Graham, the son of the school’s groundskeeper, fishing at the lake where the students went to swim. Unseen, Hannibal had watched him reel in a hefty bass, those slender fingers so delightfully clever as he pulled out a small knife and slit the fish’s belly open right then and there.

Hannibal had continued observing him for the next few days. He had seen Will performing his father’s chores when the elder Graham was still too drunk from the night before to get out of bed. He’d seen Will salvaging bread crusts from the kitchen to feed to the squirrels and birds in the garden. He’d seen the fierce, bright resentment that burned in Will’s eyes around the students of Somerville, and he’d felt it imperative that he befriend the boy.

Accomplishing that had been no small feat. Will was skittish and leary, as if Hannibal was just another doltish prep school boy, but slowly, so slowly and patiently Hannibal won him over. He would lend Will his books, and then talk to him about his reading. He would join Will when he fed his animal friends, as silly as he found it, because it was an opportunity to see Will smiling and flushed with childish pleasure. His favorite times though were accompanying Will on his fishing trips - seeing Will gut his catches was so satisfying in a deeply primal way that Hannibal was only just beginning to understand.

For the next phase of his total invasion of Will Graham, Hannibal had convinced the headmaster to let Will take classes. Or at least, that was what Will was led to believe. In truth, Hannibal paid his tuition every semester, but he knew Will wouldn’t have been able to stand feeling like a charity case, which was ridiculous, when it was just as much for himself as for Will. He wanted Will near, and elevating Will’s status would help that cause in the long run. 

They were both outsiders: Hannibal for his foreignness and Will for his low class. Though Hannibal was quite adept when it came to the social sphere, he far preferred Will’s quiet company. He often needed to be reassured that Will didn’t see him as one of them - their bourgeois classmates who had never known any hardship. Hannibal had money, yes, but he had suffered, and only Will could truly understand him - only Will was allowed to truly understand him, and Hannibal wanted to know every corner and crevice of Will’s brain in return.

-

“I was excited,” Hannibal tells him. “Your hands around her throat were a truly lovely sight.”

Will sighs and reaches for an ashtray. “And then her body went limp and I felt sorry.”

That is...not ideal, but not entirely unexpected. Hannibal has planned for this. He has had years to learn how to best distract Will from his bouts of conscience, and he employs one of his very favorite methods by urging Will to turn around, and then easing him down to sit on the window bench. Hannibal drops to his knees. Will makes a vague noise of protest, but as soon as Hannibal has his trousers open and his mouth on his cock, Will lets his head fall back against the window, rattling the glass slightly.

Hannibal is hyper-aware of the dead woman on the other side of the living room, and that unspoken presence heightens Hannibal’s arousal, makes him even more determined that Will should mirror his feelings of elation. Will smells slightly of sweat and fizzled adrenaline. His cock is limp, but Hannibal is too practiced for him to stay that way for long. He has filed away in his memory all the best ways to make Will moan. In matter of fact, Hannibal’s own pleasure and his need for influence over Will have become so intertwined that he barely knows nor cares if he actually enjoys performing this act, or just Will’s response to it.

Mentally, he does like the vulnerability of it, Will’s tender, silky flesh trapped behind his teeth. He thinks occasionally of biting, such is his overwhelming hunger for his beloved. How helpless Will would be if Hannibal really wanted to get under his skin. He fantasizes often that they might become one person, that he could make space for Will in his chest cavity, have him curl up there and never leave him.

Will fists his hair and tugs. His breath has gone ragged and there is a light sheen of perspiration on his face. Hannibal is the stronger of the two, and could resist the pull if he so chose, but he lets Will thrust into his throat, relishing the intimate taste on the back of his tongue. The noises Will makes create a lovely aria, and his name falling from Will’s lips is the perfect crescendo. Hannibal presses closer, taking Will as deep as possible and swallowing when he comes.

He fixes Will’s clothing back up with efficient but affectionate movements, and then rises to sit beside Will.

“She didn’t deserve it,” Will whispers.

“She was nothing,” Hannibal says, his voice slightly hoarse. He knows that Will likes hearing it, likes knowing that he has undone Hannibal in his own way.

“She was something,” Will muses, “and now she’s not. Because of us.”

“Because we’re superior.”

Will meets his eyes briefly and then glances away. He nods shortly and then occupies himself by kissing the lingering traces of himself out of Hannibal’s mouth.

-

Will was sweaty and smelling of fish guts the first time Hannibal kissed him. He still had his little knife brandished - one dead fish on the dock and another still alive and flopping in a bucket. Will’s eyes had gone wide with shock, and Hannibal enjoyed knowing that it was Will’s first kiss.

He seduced Will with the same patient strategy he’d used to befriend him, bit by bit his touches grew more familiar, more frequent. Will fidgeted and blushed whenever Hannibal held him close, and he would try to angle himself away, ashamed when he became aroused. For weeks Hannibal would work him up to that point and then go no further. They were both rather inexperienced, though Hannibal would hardly have described himself as innocent. He made sure to visit the nearby university’s library to research these matters as thoroughly as possible, reading Kraft-Ebbing and Freud in their original German, and, most illuminating, the just-published _Sexual Behavior of the Human Male._

The rewards of his studies were twofold. First, that he could guide Will through their first time, and second, that he decided to pursue a psychology degree after graduation. Hannibal never truly doubted he’d be able to keep Will attached to him after they left Somerville, but it was still a relief when Will agreed to move to the city with him. As it had worked so well before, Hannibal conspired to pay for Will’s continued education without Will’s knowledge. He had his lawyer set up a scholarship for promising students in need, and despite not knowing he was up for it, it was awarded to Mr. Will Graham for the entirety of his academic career at Columbia.

-  
“Dear Will,” Hannibal calls from the kitchen where he is busy garnishing a platter of canapes. “Will you set the table please?”

Will still seems a bit absent as he comes to collect the cutlery, but he does as asked. Thanks to Hannibal he knows all the proper placings of the silverware. 

This dinner is serving as a college reunion of sorts. Invited are Alana Bloom and Frederick Chilton, who had both studied psychology with Hannibal, and Freddie Lounds, who, like Will and Miriam, had been a Criminology major. The guest of honor is to be their former advisor, Jack Crawford. They had formed a small cohort as Professor Crawford’s advisees. Jack was a brilliant but demanding man - the guru, as some called him. Hannibal had always found the moniker unseemly, but the other students thought it funny, and used it whenever they gathered to discuss their theses or just to recount the last time they’d been subject to Jack’s wrath. One of them, Freddie perhaps, had dubbed them the Disciples, and that name stuck as well.

Will kept to the outskirts of the group, barely managing to disguise his dislike of Freddie and Frederick at the best of times. It was his connection to Hannibal, the unspoken leader of the Disciples, that codified his membership. Miriam had been Will’s only competition as Jack’s star pupil, and Hannibal seized on that tension and tended to it as a rare orchid. He cultivated in Will a dark envy for Miriam’s easy charisma and outgoing nature, and a contempt for her overbearing earnestness. 

There is a place set for her, like the empty seat left for Elijah - Elijah who raised the dead and entered heaven alive, neither of which would be occurring for Miriam Lass. She will be in attendance, though Hannibal still has final arrangements to make. Their housekeeper, Chiyoh, conveniently dispatched to allow them to take care of Miriam, should be back soon from her run to the market. Everything must be perfect for their dinner party tonight.

It will, after all, be the Disciples’ Last Supper.

-

“What did you think of it?” Hannibal asked when Will returned the small, worn pamphlet.

Will appeared to be mulling over his answer. “It was funny,” he said at last. He peeked up at Hannibal, gauging if this was correct or not.

Hannibal smiled fondly. “It is certainly satire.” Will looked slightly relieved. “But at its core, I agree with the idea that murder can be an art. Haven’t you ever thought so?”

“I always thought death was ugly,” Will said.

Gesturing for Will to wait a moment, Hannibal went to his bookshelf to retrieve a heavy volume of the works of Caravaggio and the Caravaggisti. “Through the great gallery of murder, therefore, together let us wander hand in hand, in delighted admiration; while I endeavor to point your attention to the objects of profitable criticism,” he said, quoting from the essay in question, _On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts._ The book naturally fell open to Hannibal’s favorites paintings as he flipped through it to show Will _Christ at the Column, David with the Head of Goliath_ , and _Sacrifice of Isaac._ Will stopped his hand on that one, and Hannibal heard his breath shudder. The boy seemed slightly scandalized by all the male flesh that captured his eyes, glowing out of the shadows of the painter’s backgrounds. Will’s lips parted as he stroked the page.

In contrast to the master’s other depiction of Isaac, in this painting Isaac was calm, even as his father’s hand still held him by the hair, even as he was nude and bound with the knife still pointed at him. The curly hair was Will’s, but it was the angel he most resembled with his pale complexion and sweet pinked-cheeks.

Towards the end of the book was a cluster of paintings of St. Sebastian by Caravaggio’s followers: Saraceni’s portrait of exquisite suffering, Honthorst’s version graphically featuring the penetration of the arrows, and Caracciolo’s masterpiece of chiaroscuro. Hannibal shifted to grasp a handful of Will’s curls, and tugged his head back to bare his throat. Will whimpered, but, like a good Christian martyr, did not struggle. “Ecstasy and death are indistinguishable from one another,” Hannibal murmured before kissing him.

When he pulled back, Will bit his lip and looked back down at the book. “This is making art out of murder, but not murder into an art.”

Hannibal laughed lightly and set the book aside so that he could take Will’s face in both hands before kissing him again. “Clever boy,” he said, savoring Will’s shy pleasure at the compliment.  
“People begin to see that something more goes to the composition of a fine murder than two blockheads to kill and be killed,” he quoted De Quincey again, “Design, grouping, light and shade, poetry, sentiment.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “You mean that the motive itself has to be art?” Hannibal hummed his approval.

“Now,” he said, gently pushing Will back towards his bed, “I think I would like to see you naked and suffering exquisitely.”

-

Frederick and Freddie are first to arrive (discounting their earlier, dispatched guest). Frederick is, and has always been a hopeless buffoon, but he’s managed well by Freddie’s intelligence. Where Miriam had been a Guru-fearing goody-goody, Freddie is scheming and ruthless in a way that Hannibal has always admired, and been entertained by.

The future Mrs. Chilton has been engaged to Frederick now for coming up on three years, and Hannibal is sure she knows exactly what she’s doing by delaying the nuptials. If there ever is a wedding, it’s a shame that he and Will will most likely not be able to attend. Freddie will make a lovely bride, and an even lovelier widow some day.

Just as Hannibal enjoys subtly manipulating those around him, he had great fun tormenting Frederick at school, but in such a way that Frederick never caught on that he was being bullied. Whenever he got a particularly cutting remark in, Freddie would smirk at him and Hannibal would wink.

“Miss Lounds,” Hannibal greets her, bussing her cheeks. “You look exquisite.”

Freddie purses her lips and cocks her hip slightly. Her peplum jacket highlights her tiny waist, and her tight skirt gives her the air of a _femme fatale_. “Lilli Ann,” she says, “Do you like it? Frederick and I just back from Chicago. He was attending a conference, and I was shopping.” She strokes the fur stole draped over her shoulder and gives Hannibal a cheeky grin.

“How naughty, Freddie, my dear. Frederick, are you quite certain you want to take on such a financial burden?”

“I have my own money, thank you,” Freddie tuts, hitting Hannibal lightly with her purse. “I am a modern woman, and a successful writer to boot.”

Frederick chuckles. “She has us both there, Hannibal.”

“Now let’s have no more talk of money,” Freddie declares. “It’s dreadfully boorish. Speaking of bores, where is Will?”

“I think he’s still dressing. I’ll fetch him. Chiyoh - can you make sure our guests get drinks?”

Hannibal finds Will in the bedroom fiddling with his cufflinks. He grasps Will’s wrist and finishes doing them up, and then brushes a stray curl back from Will’s forehead. “The party has started,” he says. “Come greet your old comrades.”

“This dinner is a terrible idea,” Will says with surprising venom.

“This dinner is the perfect last paint stroke to complete our masterpiece.”

“This dinner is an exercise in arrogance and vanity, yours, specifically,” Will snaps.

Hannibal doesn’t reply, but the grim line of his mouth telegraphs his displeasure quite clearly. Will fidgets beneath his stern glare, eyes fixed somewhere near Hannibal’s chin. “I’m sorry, you know I - this is all very intense. This is going to be the hardest part for me, and I suppose I’m turning on you a bit,” Will says, rushed.

“That’s a rather foolish thing to do, isn’t it?” Hannibal asks, lifting one hand to rest on the back of Will’s neck to tip their heads close. “We will get through this together.”

Will takes a deep, bracing breath, and then gestures for Hannibal to lead the way out. “Yes, Hannibal,” he says obediently.

-

 

“In your scenario, isn’t anybody as good as any random person off the street?” Will asked.

Hannibal traced his fingers along the curve of Will’s spine. “No, that would be...artless. It would have to have meaning, but it couldn’t be personal,” he mused. “It couldn’t be petty or crude, not if it was going to be elevated to art. It would have to be someone we know, someone inoffensive, but ordinary. Miss Lass would be perfect.”

Will turned his face into the pillow, and, slightly muffled, said, “We can’t kill someone we know; that inherently draws suspicion.”

“Are you worried? How could we get caught, my darling? With our combined intelligence? Besides, you know I’d never do anything if it wasn’t going to be perfect.” Hannibal spoke between light kisses that followed the same path as his fingers.

Will sat up suddenly, looking aghast. “You really mean to go through with this? This isn’t some thought experiment? Some rumination on Nietzschean philosophy?”

“Of course I mean to go through with it, dearest; one can’t commit the perfect murder without a murder.” Hannibal laced his fingers through Will’s and moved to rest his head in Will’s lap, staring up him, soft and indulgent. “We will never be great artists unless we practice.”

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall, indeed, or, in this case, Sing Sing,” Will grumbled.

“We’ll go away after. I’ve always wanted to see you in Italy. You belong amongst the old masterpieces.” Without warning, Hannibal flipped their positions, grabbing Will by the back of the knee to pull him down so their chests were aligned. They hadn’t bothered to dress after their romp earlier, and Hannibal let his full weight down on Will, luxuriating both in the full expanse of skin to skin contact, and the constriction of Will’s breath. “You and I are superior, surrounded by inferior beings, and it’s time we take our due. I’ll arrange everything perfectly.”

“You’re frightening me,” Will whispered. “You always have, a little - part of your charm, I suppose.” 

Hannibal smiled as though he’d been paid the highest flattery.

 

-

Unlike his reaction to their preceding guests, Will is quite happy to see Alana. He is not overly demonstrative, but his smile is genuine. There have been times when Hannibal has been jealous of Will’s affection for her, but he can admit that Alana is a lovely, intelligent woman, and he is glad to be her friend. Plus, he had years to make sure Will was thoroughly dependent on and bound to him; she couldn’t hope to pose a real threat.

Jack arrives partway through champagne and hors d'oeuvres, apologizing brusquely for being late before immediately launching into a diatribe about his useless Research Assistants. This leads into a round of playing catch-up: Alana is on the faculty at Columbia now, Frederick is doing his residency at Bellevue, and Freddie’s latest mystery novel had just become a bestseller.

“Well, Freddie smirks, toasting the group, “Here we all are, reunited, and aren’t we just the picture of success?”

“Not quite,” Alana frowns. “What could be keeping Miriam?”

Hannibal smoothly replies, “I’m not sure, but it would be a shame to compromise the food by waiting any longer. I hope she’ll forgive us if we start without her.”

“She may forgive us that, but I bet she still hasn’t forgiven Will for graduating ahead of her,” Frederick cracks.

“It was close,” Jack says, smiling. “It came down to a fraction of a point, if I remember correctly. Miriam did argue her final exam grade. We’ll have to get her to tell the story when she gets here.”

“It’s not like her to be late,” Alana comments worriedly. “I saw her just this morning, and she said she would meet me here.”

This garners her a full round of inquisitive gazes. “It seems we have all paired off,” Freddie says with a suggestive lilt. “Didn’t the Apostles work in teams of two?”

“Sent two by two,” Jack confirms. “Are you saying you’re spreading my gospel? 

“We give our lives to death,” Hannibal says, catching Will’s eyes. Will gazes back with a deceptively serene expression.

Jack guffaws. “You didn’t get that from me. I would advise the complete opposite.”

-

“How would you do it?” Hannibal breathed. He had one hand behind Will’s head, gripping his hair. The column of Will’s neck offered to him like this never failed to quicken his blood. Will jerked in his grasp as though he could escape the question, but Hannibal growled and bore him down into the mattress. “Tell me.”

Will looked at him then, searching his face. Hannibal loved that about him - Will’s ability to read his desires, his perfect other half. “With my hands,” he said. Hannibal groaned in response. Will raised his own arms and placed his hands on Hannibal’s throat. He only applied the barest pressure, but that touch, so unmistakable in its intent, had Hannibal kissing him desperately, pressing his own trachea into Will’s palms.

Will kept his hands there the entire time Hannibal was fingering him open. When Hannibal pushed inside with his cock, Will scrabbled at his shoulders and raked his nails down Hannibal’s back. As if spurred, Hannibal thrust harder, chasing the singular goal of making Will cry, to see him lost in the blur of agony and ecstasy.

 

-

“I’m sorry,” Alana says, “Before we sit down to eat, could I use the phone?” 

“Of course.” Hannibal points her to the hallway.

In the interim, Frederick gets Jack to talk about his latest research. Will is hanging back from the group a bit, not unusual for him, but since there is a special significance to tonight, Hannibal attempts to draw him into the conversation. Even still, Will is distracted and taciturn, which just won’t do, not in Hannibal’s grand design. He places his hand on Will’s lower back, a reminder to be present. Will smiles wanly and nods in acknowledgement.

After a brief time Alana returns, looking trouble. “I tried connecting to her apartment and her office. She’s not at either.”

“There could be any number of explanations,” Jack says. “Who knows what sort of errand might have come up? You know Miriam.”

“Yes, I do,” Alana says, a little terse, making Frederick and Freddie look at her sidelong again.

Hannibal steps in to usher them to the dining table. He is at the head, with Will and Jack on either side of him. Freddie and Frederick are across from each other at the other end of the table, and in the middle there is Alana on one side and the place set for Miriam on the other.

Chiyoh brings out the first course: pâté with apple gelée and pickled onions, and salmon rillettes with caviar and crème fraîche. The entrée is bacon and gruyère roasted bone marrow with parsley purée, glazed turnips, and duck breast with cardamom blood orange sauce.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Hannibal,” Jack enthuses after the first bite, followed by a chorus of agreements. 

Even still worrying about the missing member of their coterie, Alana still sighs in appreciation at the rich liver mousse. “This is wonderful, Hannibal. What is your secret?”

“Practice,” he says. Will chokes on a sip of wine, and Hannibal wants to laugh, but he just pats Will on the back until he’s recovered, though he is left with a marked blush.

Chiyoh steps into the dining room to announce that there’s a call for Dr. Bloom. Alana shoots out of her chair, a tad inelegant. She is only gone briefly, and when she returns she does not look relieved. “It was Miriam’s apartment returning my call. She hasn’t been home.”

“I have to admit, you’re starting to get me worried,” Jack says. “I’ll drive you over there after and we can check in ourselves.”

“Wonderful idea, Jack,” Hannibal says. “I”m sure we’ll all rest easier when we know that Miriam is safe and sound. If I may be so bold, though, dessert cannot be missed.”

Jack laughs and agrees, and Alana acquises somewhat more hesitantly.

Pots de crème are for dessert - bittersweet chocolate with crushed pistachios and a pomegranate reduction. “Sinful,” Freddie proclaims it.

A pained exclamation suddenly breaks the air. Jack shoves back from his chair, holding his jaw. He spits something into his palm. His fingers open and Hannibal feels all the drama of an operatic climax. Will is watching with dawning realization. In Jack’s hand is Miriam’s class ring.

“Why do you have that? Hannibal why is that there?” Alana stands up, alarmed. Quick as a cat, Freddie is out of her chair and searching the apartment. Frederick remains sitting, watching the commotion, befuddled, until Jack yells at him to call the police. 

“And you two don’t move,” he orders Hannibal and Will. There is little danger of that happening. Will is frozen, staring at Hannibal in shock, and Hannibal is quite content to stay right where he is.

It’s a spacious penthouse, but there’s still only so many places an adult woman could fit. It takes very little time for Freddie to open the door to the guest bedroom. He hears Freddie gasp, and then, a second later, Alana scream. He can picture the tableau perfectly in his mind, exactly as he arranged it earlier: Miriam laid out on the bed like Mary in Caravaggio’s _Death of the Virgin_. She is wrapped in red cloth, her head lolled onto her shoulder, one hand resting on her stomach, the other hanging off the side of the bed. She is but a detail of his masterpiece, though. What makes this art are the other players assembled, the reactions, and, most importantly, Will’s becoming.

-

“Are you ready?” Hannibal asked, fussing over Will’s tie.

Will looked past him into the dressing room mirror. “How could I be ready for this?”

Hannibal put his arms around Will’s waist and kissed his jaw. “Do you feel the anticipation curling in your stomach? Is there excitement twitching in your fingers? Tell me, dear boy, what is going on in that lovely brain of yours?”

Head tipped forward, Will stroked the lapels of Hannibal’s jacket. Hannibal took Will’s hands and brought his fingers to his lips, kissing each one reverently. “You’re not frightened, are you? You can’t have fear, Will.”

“I’m not frightened,” Will echoed. 

“Not even of me?” Hannibal asked slyly.

“No, not frightened,” Will said. “You just astound me, as always.” There was an aloofness there that Hannibal wanted to burn away, and so he took Will’s mouth in a fierce kiss, only letting it end when Will was warm and his again. “I can’t believe it’s really happening,” Will whispered breathlessly.

“Yes, and it’s going to go perfectly. Now let’s be ready to greet our guest.”

-

“You wanted us to get caught,” Will says, and it’s not a question. It’s the first time he’s spoken to Hannibal since the dinner party.

“I want us to be together,” Hannibal corrects him. 

Will is slumped in their dingy jail cell, his head hanging between his shoulders. They’d been arrested and booked as soon as the police arrived. Neither of them had resisted, though Hannibal had felt no small amount of distaste when they were forced to exchange their suits for scratchy blue pants and plain white t-shirts. 

“We’ll get the chair,” Will says bleakly.

“Not with the sort of counsel I can afford,” Hannibal says, the bare hint of a smirk betrayed in his voice. “Besides, as long as we’re together it doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” Will asks, though Hannibal is sure he doesn’t really need to. “I wanted to go to Italy. I wanted to run away with you.”

“But you weren’t going to. You were thinking of leaving.”

Will looks up for a moment, his eyes widening, before he drops his gaze back to the floor. “I hadn’t decided,” he says, and Hannibal can tell it’s the truth. “You’re going to hate the food, and the cloths, and the accommodations,” Will says with a wry chuckle.

“I’ve lived through worse,” Hannibal counters, “but I don’t want to live without you.”

Will does laugh then, a sharp, pained sound. “You always were a romantic,” he says. “Freddie’s going to write a book, you know. And Frederick will be her expert consultant. She’s going to drag us through the mud.”

“I know. She already asked if she could interview us. That was while we were getting handcuffed. I said of course, anything for an old friend.”

Will laughs bitterly. “I’ll be damned if I talk to her.” He doesn’t say anything more for a while, but then, “Were you going to sabotage it all along?”

“No,” Hannibal says. “Not until I found out about that bank account you had stashed away, and the bus ticket to Baton Rouge.”

“I don’t think I would have used it,” Will says thoughtfully. “I only knew it was what I should do, but I’ve never been good at rationality when it comes to you.”

“Nor I with you,” Hannibal grants.

“What a pair we are,” Will scoffs.

Hannibal just barely touches his hand - his ring finger and pinky curling lightly around Will’s thumb. Will doesn’t pull away, and Hannibal says, “We’re perfect”


End file.
